


Echo

by estychan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Male Slash, Sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estychan/pseuds/estychan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a raid goes horribly wrong, Lestrade loses his life. Everyone who knew him sheds tears for him, but none grieves for him more completely than the lover he left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duchesscloverly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=duchesscloverly).



> Oh God, I'm still crying... Writing this one was very, very hard for me. Lestrade is one of my favorite characters in the show, and thinking about what could happen if he were ever to die in the line of duty just chokes me up. This is my first Mystrade fic, so please be nice.
> 
> This fic is based on and named after a lovely but heartbreaking Mystrade fanvid on YouTube by duchesscloverly. I watched it this morning and I simply had to write a fanfic based on it. You can find the video [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO_NV5_LzSo).

“Sergeant Donovan, you come with me. The rest of you, stand by each entrance just in case the suspect tries to escape,” Greg instructed, checking his weapon to make sure it was ready just in case he needed to use it. He hoped he wouldn’t have to, but he would be stupid to not be prepared. He and Sally made their way into the building with their weapons in-hand, every one of his senses sharpened and aware of his surroundings. It was a small house, so there wouldn’t be many places for their suspect to hide, but that also meant there was less room for them to maneuver and react if something went wrong.

The two of them tensed when they heard something and Greg turned toward the stairs. He had heard someone up there. He turned to Sally and nodded toward the stairs.

“I’ll go up and flush him out,” he whispered to her. “You wait right around the corner there and if he tries to escape and comes downstairs, call the others in and we’ll have him. There’s one of him, seven of us. He doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting away from us.” Sally nodded and after agreeing to be careful, Greg made his way up the stairs with his gun out in front of him. He searched each room as he came to it, checking everywhere someone could potentially hide. He finally came to the last upstairs room and kicked the door open. Standing near the window was a man who at first glance looked to be in his thirties, wearing a grey button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. He was unarmed, as far as Greg could tell.

“Put your hands on your head and turn around very slowly,” Greg ordered gruffly. The man did as he was told and put his hands on his head, turning around to face him. He was completely calm, his steely eyes staring him down. Greg started making his way toward him, but he was unaware of the second man coming up behind him, holding a gun of his own. By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. A searing pain exploded at the back of his skull when he felt something blunt hit him, the force behind it sending him to the floor. Stunned, he was defenseless as the man in the grey shirt kicked his gun away from him and then grabbed it for himself, aiming it right at him.

“Looks like you’re out of options, mate,” he said coldly with a smirk.

“Donovan, now!” Greg yelled as loud as he could, wincing heavily when his skull throbbed where the baseball bat hit him. He felt a wetness trickling down the back of his neck. So, the bat had broken skin after all. He heard several sets of footsteps from downstairs, as well as shouting. He could see the anger in the man-in-grey’s face and a cold fear gripped him. His life was already flashing before his eyes, but his mind was mostly lingering on one person.

_Mycroft… I’m sorry._

He had only enough time to take one more breath before his world exploded with light and noise and blood. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light vanished and everything went black and silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so short because it's technically only an introduction. The next one is longer; I promise.


	2. The News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally calls Sherlock to let him know about Lestrade's untimely death, and neither he nor John take it very well. Sherlock takes it upon himself to call Mycroft and let him know what has happened.
> 
> Then, Mycroft remembers a happier time.

“Tea, Sherlock?” called John from the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove and waiting for his flatmate and lover to answer him. When no answer came, he rolled his eyes and turned his head to look at the dark-haired man typing away on his laptop. He said his name a bit louder this time to get his attention, and this time, Sherlock reacted.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked, glancing over his shoulder at John.

“I asked if you wanted tea.”

“Oh, yes. A splash of milk and two sugars for me, thanks,” he responded. Sherlock’s attention returned to the laptop screen but he was soon interrupted again when his mobile starting ringing on the table beside him. Glancing at it briefly, he picked it up and checked the number. He didn’t recognize it right away, but he answered it anyway.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 _“Hey, S-Sherlock… It’s Sergeant Donovan.”_ As if the caller wasn’t enough of a surprise, the tonality of her voice was even more concerning. It sounded thick with tears, and there was a slight tremor to it. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he frowned. Sally never called him, so why now? Surely it must be something important.

“Is something the matter? I must say, this is a bit of a surprise, Donovan. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s Lestrade calling me when there’s a case the Yard needs assistance with.” He heard a hitch in Sally’s breathing over the phone at the detective inspector’s name, and a nagging sense of dread tugged at him.

“Sally?”

_“Sherlock, Lestrade is… He’s dead.”_

Sherlock was silent for a full minute, eyes closed tight and a muscle working in his jaw as he tried to swallow the news. He couldn’t believe it. This was a phone call he had never expected to receive, ever.

“I see,” he muttered finally, somehow managing to keep his voice even. “How did he…?”

" _Killed in action. We were staging a raid on the home of a man suspected of drug trafficking, and there… there was a second suspect we weren’t anticipating. Somehow he got past me while I was checking a different room in the downstairs part of the house. Lestrade was incapacitated by a blow to the back of the head with a baseball bat and then the suspect we were there for took his gun from him. He managed to call me and alert the other officers to apprehend both suspects before he was… before he was gunned down. Shot between the eyes.”_

Halfway through her explanation, Sally started crying again. The tears weren’t subdued in any way this time. Lestrade had been a good friend of hers, and now she was gone. Naturally, she would be broken up over his death.

Sherlock, for once, could sympathize entirely.

“When did this happen?”

_"Two hours ago.”_

Sherlock was silent for only a moment.

“Has my brother been told yet?” He knew Lestrade and Mycroft had been together for several months, so naturally Mycroft would want to hear the news if he hadn’t heard it already. He dreaded that conversation entirely, but it needed to happen.

_"Not yet. I was going to call him up after I got off the phone with you. Or, would you…?”_

“I’ll tell him myself. Thank you, Sally… Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with the… with the funeral arrangements.” Sherlock hung up and slowly set his mobile down on the table next to his laptop, his hand shaking ever so slightly. When John walked up beside him and set his cup of tea down on the table, he didn’t even need to look to know that John was staring at him.

“Sherlock, what’s happened? Sergeant Donovan never calls. What did she want?” John questioned, setting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. When Sherlock mentioned funeral arrangements, his voice had been too low for John to hear from the kitchen, so he didn’t yet know the nature of the phone call.

Sherlock brought a hand up to cover John’s on his shoulder and looked up at him, his eyes moist with tears he refused to shed even in front of his lover. His face was even paler than usual, and this alarmed John greatly.

“Sherlock, please,” John whispered. “Say something.”

“It’s Lestrade. He was killed during a raid just two hours ago.”

John’s breath hitched at the news and he looked away, closing his eyes tightly and shaking his head. He was silent for quite some time, bringing a hand up to his face and covering his eyes. Sherlock watched him closely and if the slight trembling of his shoulders was anything to go by, he was starting to cry. He got to his feet and pulled John into a tight hug, nestling his cheek against his hair and closing his eyes.

“Jesus,” John rasped out, voice shaking. “I can’t do it anymore, Sherlock. I can’t.”

“Can’t do what?” he questioned, having a sinking feeling that he somehow already knew the answer.

“I can’t bury anymore friends.”

********

Mycroft sat quietly in his armchair by the fireplace, a glass of scotch in his left hand as he gazed into the flickering light. It had been a surprisingly quiet day, which was pretty rare unless he was on a scheduled vacation, and now he was settling in for an even quieter evening. He briefly entertained the thought of phoning Greg and inviting him over, but he had been very busy for the past couple of days hunting down some sort of drug cartel operating in the London underground. Perhaps it would be best to not disturb him.

He took a thoughtful sip of scotch and was about to pick up the novel he had started reading the night before when his mobile started vibrating in his jacket pocket. He reached into his jacket and pulled it out, seeing Sherlock’s caller I.D. on the screen. Sighing, he answered and brought the device up to his ear.

“Is there some special occasion I’m unaware of, Sherlock?” he asked dryly. “For you to willingly call me, it must be quite the occasion, indeed.”

_“Lestrade is dead.”_

It took a few moments for that simple sentence to register in Mycroft’s brain. When it finally did, he felt almost as though someone had dropped a bucket of ice-cold water over him. It soaked into his very bones, causing his breath to shudder out of him. A part of him didn’t believe it. Rather, a part of him didn’t _want_ to believe it. Lestrade was one of the only people who had ever been able to warm that heart of his, and now that he was gone, he could feel the cold creeping in once more.

“What happened, Sherlock?” he queried, his voice steady and surprisingly calm. Having a breakdown while on the phone with Sherlock was something he never wanted to say he had done.

Sherlock told Mycroft everything Sally had told him, and Mycroft thought he heard his voice catch once or twice. Sherlock had known Greg much longer than he had, so of course his death would hit him very hard. Sherlock had never dealt with death well, at least not when it was someone close to him who died. He recalled when they were children and their mother had told them their father wouldn’t be coming home. Sherlock had been nearly inconsolable, being only six at the time. Mycroft remembered him crying until he could hardly breathe, clinging to their mother’s skirt and not letting go for at least twenty minutes.

“Have… Have funeral arrangements been made yet?” He felt his throat tighten around the word _funeral_.

 _“Not yet. Sergeant Donovan told me she would let me know when they were underway. I offered to help.”_ Sherlock paused. _“For what it’s worth, I’m… I’m sorry, Mycroft. I know you felt strongly for him. Hell, I think he even made you a little more tolerable during the time you were together.”_ He laughed slightly, but there was only a touch of mirth.

Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to smile. His lover was dead; there would be no smiling this evening.

“Thank you for phoning me about this matter, Sherlock. Sergeant Donovan was the one who was originally going to let me know, wasn’t she?”

_“Yes, but… I offered to do it instead.”_

“I see. Well, if that’s all, I… I should be going. There is much that needs to be done.”

 _“Goodbye, Mycroft.”_ The line went dead.

Mycroft set his phone down on the small table next to his armchair and he released a shaky sigh, glancing absently about the sitting room that suddenly seemed much too large and empty. His gaze fell upon the black leather sofa and he found himself lost in a memory, one of those he held closest to his heart.

 

_He apologized for the delay upon entering the sitting room, slipping his mobile into his jacket and shutting the doors. He had called Greg to his home to discuss some official matters, but just as he was about to sit down, his mobile had rung and other matters were brought to his attention. The phone call had gone longer than he’d anticipated, so he wasn’t able to return to the sitting room until roughly half an hour later._

_When he did return, he found Greg stretched out on the leather sofa, one of his legs dangling over the edge while the other rested against the armrest at the opposite end. His left arm was above his head, gripping lightly at the pillow while the other rested limply across his stomach. His head was turned slightly to rest against his left arm, his eyes closed and his breathing soft and even._

_He was asleep._

_Mycroft approached him quietly and looked down at him, addressing him by name to rouse him. He couldn’t be so deep into slumber that he didn’t hear him, could he?_

_As it turned out, he wasn’t. Greg momentarily jolted as he was awakened, yawning softly and blinking blearily as he looked up at Mycroft. Realizing the position he was in and how foolish he must look, his expression became one of surprise and slight embarrassment over the fact that he had fallen asleep while waiting for Mycroft to return._

_“Sorry,” he said, voice a bit roughened with drowsiness as he sat upright and rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t mean to doze off. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, and you were taking a while, and this sofa is so comfortable… I guess I just couldn’t help myself.”_

_“Quite alright,” Mycroft assured him, sitting down in his armchair with a little smile sent in Greg’s direction. “I do apologize for the delay, however. Something important needed discussing, and I’m afraid it couldn’t wait.”_

_Greg smiled. “I figured as much. You’re a busy man; I understand that. So, to business then?”_

_Throughout their entire conversation, Mycroft found himself feeling more and more taken by the detective inspector. He had an air of authority about him but at the same time, there was a certain softness to him that Mycroft himself didn’t possess. His brown eyes had a slightly haunted look, no doubt due to the horrors he had seen in his line of work, but underlying all of that was warmth._

_At some point, Mycroft offered Greg a drink, which he politely accepted, and with every sip of the beverage he seemed to become more and more relaxed. He leaned back into the couch without truly lying down, his posture much more casual than any sort of business meeting called for. Talking to him was surprisingly easy, and any time he said something Greg found remotely humorous, the detective inspector would laugh in the most carefree manner and Mycroft would smile at him in return._

_By the time Greg left, Mycroft felt something deep inside him that he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. He felt warm; happy. The rest of the day was spent thinking about that easygoing smile and that masculine but almost musical laugh, his mind occasionally drifting to how peaceful he had looked while dozing on his sofa._

_He remembered thinking about how, after all that time, he finally understood why Sherlock liked him._

 

Mycroft gradually pulled out of his thoughts and after such a happy memory, reality soon slapped him in the face as painfully as a sack full of bricks. Greg was gone, and he would never see that smile again.

Only then did he allow himself to weep, taking comfort in the knowledge that no one but himself was around to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time I was finished writing this chapter, there were tears streaming down my face... I hope you all appreciate the emotional trauma I put myself through to write these things for you, haha. 
> 
> Will put up the next chapter as soon as it is finished.


	3. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After attending Greg's funeral, Mycroft partakes in drowning his sorrows in good whiskey and eating dinner all alone in his large home...
> 
> ...but is he truly as alone as he thinks?

Almost a week after his death, Greg’s funeral was held. It was a large affair, the church decorated with flowers and every officer who worked at the Yard in attendance, wearing their dress uniforms. Mycroft sat at the end of the second pew on the right-hand side of the church and beside him were Sherlock and John, both wearing dark suits and being very somber indeed. Mrs. Hudson was there as well, and Molly Hooper. Sitting in the first pew on the left-hand side of the church were Greg’s parents and his ex-wife, Diane, along with their eight-year-old son, Peter.

Unsurprisingly, Diane’s new fiancé was sitting on the other side of her, gripping her hand and lightly stroking the back of it with his thumb as though to comfort her. Mycroft nearly sneered at the sight. How dare she bring along the man she’d been sleeping with behind Greg’s back? In Mycroft’s eyes, regardless of whether Diane meant it that way or not, it was a vulgar insult to Greg’s memory.

Sherlock and John were among the people who went up to the podium to say a few words, the others being the chief superintendant, Sally Donovan, and Diane. Mycroft didn’t get up to speak, but not because he didn’t want to. Neither Diane nor her son was aware that Greg had been in a committed relationship with a man over the past five months, and he intended to keep it that way. As far as they were concerned, he was only attending the funeral because he was a close friend of Greg’s.

In reality, he was utterly destroyed by Greg’s death and as he gazed at the framed photo on top of the closed, flag-draped casket, a white-hot dagger twisted in his gut and he almost wanted to vomit. At the end of the service when everyone was allowed to come up to the casket and say their final goodbyes, Mycroft remained seated until after Greg’s family got their chance. Once he saw them back away from the casket, poor Peter clinging to his mother’s skirt and crying at the loss of his father, Mycroft stood up.

He approached the casket and clasped his hands in front of him as he gazed at the photograph on top, his expression a serious one so that no one would be able to see just how much this was killing him.

“I’m sure to some extent, every policeman expects to die in the line of duty,” he said quietly. “But even so, I… I wish things were different. As terrible as it sounds, I wish it was someone else who had taken that bullet.” His throat felt tight as he spoke, the tears crowding far closer than he might have liked.

“For what it’s worth, I have never felt so strongly for anyone as I did for you, as strongly as I _still_ feel for you. You… You will be deeply missed, Greg.” He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as he rested his fingertips gently against the lid of the casket. Rather than say it aloud where anyone could hear him, he mouthed a sad _I love you_ before allowing his fingers to slide away from the lid.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head slightly to see Sherlock standing beside him. He had him fixed with a genuinely apologetic look; his pale eyes seemed sad, and very tired.

“If you want another minute to say goodbye, you can have it,” the detective granted, showing more care for his older brother than he had in years.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I’ve… I’ve said all that needed saying. Now, it is your turn.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a tight smile and announced that he would be standing near the car when he, John, Molly and Mrs. Hudson (they had all come in the same vehicle) were ready to go to the cemetery. He made his way outside into the crisp London air, finding it marginally easier to breathe once he was out of the stifling church.

He watched the other funeral-goers silently as he waited for those he knew to leave the building. Only a dozen or so of Greg’s fellow policemen were dabbing at their eyes discreetly when they thought no one was watching; the others seemed to only be there for courtesy’s sake. They hadn’t known Greg personally; they were only there because it was expected of them to attend. Therefore, Mycroft had little respect for them.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock, John, Molly and Mrs. Hudson approached his car—more of a limousine, really—and he opened the door, letting the two women in first, then Sherlock and John, before climbing in himself and shutting the door. He rapped twice at the divider between the cab and the back of the limo to alert his driver. Moments later, they were pulling away from the curb and driving to the cemetery. A lot of the funeral-goers had left before them, which meant the casket would be brought to the cemetery soon after they arrived.

“That was such a beautiful service,” said Mrs. Hudson, the elderly woman dabbing carefully under her eyes to avoid smearing her makeup. “I feel terrible for that poor little boy… Now he has to grow up without a father.”

“He’s been growing up without his father for almost a year now,” Sherlock grumbled, staring out one of the limousine windows. “Lestrade hardly ever got to see his son, except on every other weekend. He tried getting full custody of him after the divorce, but because of the long hours he put in at the Yard every week, it was decided that Peter staying with his mother would be best for the boy in the end.”

“Ridiculous,” scoffed John, shaking his head. “If you ask me, a woman who would have an affair behind her husband’s back after she was with him for over eight years _and had a child with him_ doesn’t deserve to be a mother at all.”

Mycroft remained silent all the way to the cemetery.

If the funeral service tore at his heart, then the actual lowering of the casket into Greg’s grave was so much worse. There was a certain sense of finality to the sight. Mycroft watched as Greg’s young son did the honors of tossing the first handful of soil onto the casket six feet below, and he bowed his head, closing his eyes and clenching his hands more tightly in front of him. This was goodbye, and it had come all too soon.

_Rest in peace._

********

The limousine pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street shortly before sunset, everyone in the vehicle feeling worn out and heavy with grief after Greg’s funeral. Molly was the first to get brought home, since her flat was much closer to the cemetery than Baker Street. During the drive, Mycroft could feel Sherlock’s gaze upon him, no doubt picking apart every visible emotion on his face and storing it away in that brilliant and infuriating mind of his for later analysis. For a couple of minutes, no one moved to get out. The first to exit the vehicle was Mrs. Hudson, who soon proceeded to unlock the door to 221B and make her way inside. John made to get out next but when he noticed Sherlock lingering back, he hesitated.

“Coming, Sherlock?” he asked.

“Yes, but first, I would like to speak to Mycroft. Privately.”

“Sure.” John looked at Mycroft then and smiled faintly, though there was no happiness to be found in it. Of course there wasn’t. John, who had seen so many friends die during his time in Afghanistan, had buried yet another friend that day. The smile was merely one of sympathy, obviously meant to make Mycroft feel better; it didn’t.

“I’m really sorry, Mycroft,” he said sincerely. With that, John made his way up to his and Sherlock’s flat and left the two Holmes brothers alone. Mycroft watched Sherlock expectantly, a frown furrowing his brow.

“Well? Make it quick, if you don’t mind. It has been a long and trying day, and I would very much like to—”

“Did you love him?” Well, that was blunt… Even for Sherlock.

“I had feelings for him, naturally,” Mycroft responded icily. “We were in a relationship for five months, Sherlock.”

“Then why didn’t you speak at his funeral? John and I went up there as two good friends; why didn’t you, as his lover?”

Mycroft looked away, refusing to make eye contact. Eye contact made it easier for Sherlock to read people, though perhaps averting his eyes also served the same purpose.

“You know bloody well why.”

Sherlock was silent for a few moments before articulating his answer slowly as though tasting the words on his tongue: “The boy and his mother.”

“Yes. They did not know about us, and for good reason. Greg mentioned once that his ex-wife is from a very traditional family and has had acute homophobia beaten into her brain by her parents from a young age. She never knew he was bisexual, and he preferred to keep it that way lest she use it as an excuse to keep him from ever seeing his son. His death does not change that. If he wanted it to remain a secret to his ex-wife and his son, then… that is how it shall remain.”

“I see. Well, I should probably go inside before John sends out a small search party,” Sherlock said in an attempt at humor. He moved to leave the limo, but paused to look at his brother once more. Mycroft waited expectantly for him to say something, and with no small amount of impatience. He just wanted to go home and perhaps have a nice dinner. He hadn’t eaten all day, and his stomach was starting to feel as empty as his heart.

“Mycroft, I know we have never really gotten on, but… in lieu of the circumstances, I imagine it would be appreciated if I said you could call me if you need to talk.”

“Goodness, John really has changed you, hasn’t he?” Mycroft questioned dryly.

“I know you’re taking the piss, but I’m being serious.” Sherlock’s voice was stern now, so much so that it was actually rather surprising. Sherlock had never shown such obvious signs of caring for his wellbeing, so he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. So, he said the first thing that came to mind.

“I do appreciate the offer.”

“Good. Text me when you get home.”

“And why would I do that?”

The limousine door had closed behind Sherlock before he could give him an answer.

************

Mycroft sat all alone at the dining table in his home, a glass of whiskey in-hand and the half-empty bottle sitting in front of him. After finishing his dinner, he pondered whether or not drinking would be a more effective distraction from his sorrow than settling down by the fireplace and reading a novel. Eventually, the temptation of whiskey won out.

He had eaten many dinners with Greg at this very table. Their first real date, in fact, was one of those occasions. It had all come about after Greg texted him earlier that afternoon asking him if he would mind his stopping by after work that evening. Surprised but curious, Mycroft agreed. The whole dinner had gone very pleasantly, the two of them smiling and laughing over scotch and dessert. Greg had clearly stopped by his flat before heading over, dressed much more casually than his job normally allowed, yet there was also evidence of trying to look his best. A light sprinkling of cologne, hair slightly damp where he had used water to make it look more presentable…

If he closed his eyes, he could see him as clear as day. Greg always had such a nice, open smile. Mycroft inhaled shakily and shook his head, hiding his face in his hands and trying to force the images from his mind. Remembering only reopened the wounds, and that was the one thing he had wanted to prevent by indulging in some of his good whiskey.

Then came an all-too-familiar voice from across the table: “It’s weird, seeing you like this.”

It was Greg’s voice.

Mycroft took his hands away from his face and gasped sharply when he saw Greg sitting there directly across from him, dressed in the same white button-down and jeans he had just been thinking of. He looked solid, and very much alive, but even his whiskey-hazed brain was aware of the problem with that.

“You’re not here,” he said slowly, staring at Greg in disbelief. “You’re… You’re not real.”

“Aren’t I? I’m as real as you want me to be,” replied the apparition (yes, he supposed that was the correct word for what he was seeing) with a smile. Greg looked around, taking in his surroundings and lounging comfortably in the chair as he did so.

Mycroft swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat, rubbing his eyes and blinking hard a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The apparition didn’t leave.

_I must be going crazy…_

“Greg, I attended your bloody _funeral_ today!” he exclaimed. “I watched them… _bury you_.”

“Yes, I know. I was there.” Greg said it so calmly that it would have been comical if Mycroft weren’t so alarmed by this whole thing. The apparition got to his feet and walked around to Mycroft’s end of the table, smiling sadly when the man instinctively started pushing his chair backwards and away from him. He paused, waiting patiently for Mycroft to calm down.

“Are you… Are you a ghost then?” Mycroft muttered, staring at the face that he had been certain he would never see again.

“Of a kind, I suppose.”

“What do you mean, ‘of a kind’? Are you or aren’t you?”

“I told you: I am as real as you want me to be.” The apparition closed the distance between them and brought a hand up, sliding his fingertips along Mycroft’s cheek. The movement was obvious, yet the pressure that normally came with gliding fingertips was entirely absent.

“So I can see you, but I can’t touch you…” Mycroft’s blue eyes shimmered as they gazed up into Greg’s brown ones, and Greg responded only by nodding his head.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault I’m apparently going mad; it’s the copious amount of whiskey I have consumed this evening.”

Greg chuckled lightly, but his expression was a sad one; a regretful one.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Mycroft remained silent.

“What I meant was… I’m sorry for putting you through all of this.”

“If anyone should apologize, it is me.” When Greg’s eyes took on an inquisitive nature, Mycroft continued and was unable to stop the lone tear from sliding down his cheek. “I’m sorry for not telling you more often how I… how I felt.”

“You didn’t have to. I could tell without you having to say anything. The fact that you let me into your inner circle at all was evidence enough.”

Greg leaned in closer and as a reflex, Mycroft closed his eyes. He felt nothing, but somehow he knew what sensation he _should_ be feeling: the warmth and light pressure of lips against his own, the smoothness of Greg’s clean-shaven face near his. If his mind lingered on that first kiss of theirs long enough, he could almost swear he felt it for real in that moment.

He opened his eyes a few minutes later and when he did, Greg was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some difficulty figuring out where I wanted this chapter to go at first, but I'm rather happy with how it turned out. :) Hopefully I executed this chapter's final scene in a manner that was at least somewhat believable... Haha.
> 
> Comment/leave kudos if you enjoyed! Subscribe if you want to be updated on the release of future chapters!


	4. Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after Greg's death, Sherlock and John realize that the emotional damage done to Mycroft is a lot greater than they initially feared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been in the works for a while, but I had a major case of writer's block at some point about halfway through, and that on top of my busy schedule delayed the update. It is done now, however, so I hope you all enjoy the new chapter! :)

“Sherlock, are you listening?”

“What is it, John? I need to finish this experiment; the results are very important to this case, so I can’t afford to do anything incorrectly,” Sherlock drawled, squeezing a small amount of unidentified fluid into the beaker of… whatever that other fluid was.

“It’s Mycroft,” John began, leaning slightly against the kitchen counter and watching as Sherlock continued his experiment. “I’m getting a bit… I dunno, I guess ‘concerned’ would be a good word for it.” He noticed Sherlock squaring his shoulders a bit at the mention of his older brother’s name and he frowned. 

“You’ve noticed too, then,” Sherlock guessed calmly, glancing briefly over at John before returning his attention to the experiment laid out on the table. 

“What, that it’s been two weeks since the funeral and he is still having trouble functioning without Greg there to set him straight when he needs it?”

“Yes and no. Since the funeral, he’s been acting… strangely.”

“Strange how?”

Two days after Greg’s funeral, Sherlock had tried phoning Mycroft to see how he was holding up. He had told Mycroft to text him when he got home after the funeral so he would know Mycroft hadn’t done anything stupid. Well, the text didn’t come until around midnight, a full six hours after Mycroft arrived at his home.

The text read: _‘I forgot to text you. Goodnight, Sherlock. —MH’_  


The text message itself had been very odd to Sherlock. Mycroft rarely ever forgot anything, especially something so simple. The uncharacteristic nature of it concerned him. So, the following day while John was working a shift at the clinic, he took a cab to Mycroft’s home. He had been there a few times, but it had always been for business purposes.

“The whole time I was there, he seemed very distant. I would be saying something to him, and then all of a sudden he would look elsewhere… but not in a way that suggested he was trying to avoid eye contact. It was almost like he was looking at something specific but every time I looked, there was nothing there that warranted any attention whatsoever.”

“Maybe he was staring off into space?” John suggested, crossing his arms. “People do that, you know.”

“I know the difference, John. God knows you stare into space enough.” He smirked slightly at John’s halfhearted glare before continuing. “I did ask him about it as I was leaving, but he brushed it off and told me there was just a lot on his mind. I didn’t push the subject further, but… his behavior was very peculiar compared to the usual.”

“He’s being very distant, too,” John noted. “I know he’s a busy man, being part of the British government and all that, but not seeing him or hearing from him at all in two weeks… He’s taking Greg’s death very hard.”

“Mycroft has never been much of a one for grieving, John. ‘Caring is not an advantage,’ he once told me. That he is still grieving so much two weeks after the fact, it’s not like him… and I can’t figure it out.”

“He’ll come around eventually, Sherlock. He just needs time. He and Greg were very close, and he obviously loved him. Losing someone you love is never easy.” The doctor’s expression became wistful and sad then, and Sherlock didn’t need more than a moment to know what John was thinking about when he said that. 

“How long did it take you to stop grieving for me?” he inquired.

“Three years.”

******************

"Mycroft."

"No."

"You _need_ to eat something," Greg said insistently with a concerned frown, arms crossed. "You'll make yourself sick if you don't."

"I don't care. I really, truly could not _possibly_ care less." Mycroft's voice was bitter as he spoke and he flipped to the next page of his newspaper a bit more roughly than necessary, nearly tearing one of the pages as he did so. "Anyway, you aren't really here. I keep deluding myself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, you _are_ really here and everything is fine and back to the way it should be, but you aren't really here, Greg. You're just a figment of my imagination."

Greg sighed and shook his head disapprovingly. "You can let me go at any time, you know."

"No. I can't."

"You _can_. You just choose not to." 

Mycroft did not respond. He knew Greg was right. He knew holding onto him was not healthy, that it was doing more harm than good... but he just could not bring himself to let the man go, even though he was not actually there. He liked seeing him wandering around the house as he normally would, dressed casually in his favorite T-shirt and well-worn jeans, or even joining him when he was in the shower. Some days, it was almost like everything was back to the way it was before, but then Greg would brush against him without causing any sort of physical feedback to the touch and he was reminded once again that his lover was dead and six feet under the ground; that he was never coming back.

He missed the physical contact between them. Being woken up early in the morning by Greg saying goodbye before going to Scotland Yard for the day, lazy late-night kisses on the sofa in front of the 52-inch HD television set, making love until dawn on nights when Greg had a rare day off the following day. He could try recreating those moments in his mind if he wanted, but what was the point? They would be a poor substitute for the feel of Greg's warm skin against his, his hot breath washing over his lips in a moment of passion. 

Mycroft swallowed a lump in his throat and set his newspaper aside, suddenly not interested in catching up on the latest happenings in London. He looked up at Greg when he climbed onto his lap, silently mourning the fact that he could not feel that comfortable weight on top of him.

"You're only hurting yourself more," Greg murmured close to Mycroft's ear. "If you just let me go... you will be much happier."

"No. I might not be able to touch you anymore, but at least I can see you every day. Even when you were alive, I... I only saw you every few days, if I was lucky."

"I know that, but this way you're just torturing yourself, Mycroft."

"I don't care." Mycroft stood up, passing through Greg as he did so and straightening out his jacket. Greg frowned up at him, now sitting in the politician's chair.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Out," was Mycroft's only answer before grabbing his coat and walking right out the front door. He needed a distraction... and he had a feeling his dear little brother would be more than happy to provide him with one.

 

Unfortunately, arriving unannounced at 221B and settling in to speak to Sherlock and John to see how they were doing was only a temporary distraction. Greg had followed him. He stood on the landing just outside the door, his shoulder leaned against the doorframe as he watched the goings-on between them. Mycroft paled slightly when he saw him, thinking briefly about how Sherlock most likely noticed the change. Very little ever slipped by his brother. 

He had hoped this apparition would stay behind at his house and leave him be until he returned from his ventures, but he soon realized that was too much to hope for. They were connected; wherever he went, Greg followed.

"Mycroft?" John questioned when he remained silent for too long, glancing toward the door to see what the eldest Holmes brother was looking at but finding nothing worthy of his attention. "Everything alright?"

"What? Oh, yes. I'm fine," Mycroft answered calmly with a noncomittal shrug after a moment more of silence. "I just didn't sleep well last night, so I am not quite myself." 

Sherlock and John shared an uncertain glance, unconvinced by Mycroft's explanation. John was now starting to see firsthand what Sherlock had told him was happening with his brother, and it was not good. 

"So," Sherlock interjected, pressing his fingers together in front of his lips as he closely observed Mycroft's odd behavior, "this is purely a social call, is it?"

"Sorry...?"

"Generally you only come here when there is some heinous plot against the government that you need my assistance in dispelling, so out with it. I don't have all day."

"Sherlock," John warned, frowning at the detective. 

"A right bastard as always," Mycroft heard Greg muse from the doorway, though of course no one else heard him. Mycroft narrowed his eyes briefly at Greg before getting to his feet and straightening out his jacket, checking his watch as though the time was important. 

"No heinous plots today, Sherlock. I apologize if I have wasted your oh-so-valuable time with my visit. If you'll excuse me, I'll be going now."

"You don't have to go, Mycroft," John said gently, glaring briefly at Sherlock before fixing Mycroft with a more apologetic expression. "Please, stay. I can go make us some tea if you want."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly waste anymore of my _dear_ brother's time." 

"Lestrade."

Mycroft blanched, his blue eyes flicking briefly toward Sherlock. "Pardon?" 

"You are still mourning him," Sherlock said pointedly, getting to his feet and standing in front of his brother, staring into his eyes as though trying to find something there. "You need to let him go, Mycroft. If you hold onto the past, you will never recover. He is gone; you need to accept it eventually."

"See?" Greg said into Mycroft's ear from behind. "I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Mycroft swallowed heavily, remaining as composed as he could as he leered at his brother. "It is no concern of yours, Sherlock. From now on, you will stay out of this. I have everything under control."

"See, I don't think you do."

"Then just once, you got it wrong." Mycroft left Sherlock and John's flat and stepped out into the brisk London air, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he climbed into his car and told the driver to take him home. He blinked, and Greg was sitting beside him in the backseat. A few silent tears rolled down his cheeks and he looked away from Greg, focusing on the city outside that suddenly appeared so gloomy.

"It looks like rain again," he muttered.

Greg agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. See you all next chapter! :D


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